


It Requires Art And Pains

by cuttooth



Series: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boundaries? What boundaries?, Canon Asexual Character, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Misguided attempts to make things better, Oral Sex, Peter Lukas is a creep, Trans Male Character, Voyeurism, beholding kink, but not, sexuality shaming, technically a threesome, undernegotiated sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 02:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Jon can hardly breathe as Martin turns towards him, reaching across so Jon’s hand is now cradled in both of his. His eyes meet Jon’s, hesitant but determined.“That’s the other reason I invited you here this evening. To ask - if you want to stay and watch? Tonight?”*Martin proposes a solution.





	It Requires Art And Pains

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to the wonderful [fatal_drum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum), who talked me down from throwing this whole thing out, and whose insightful feedback improved it 10x. 
> 
> The third and (possibly) final part of this series, which I've unofficially subtitled _How To Continuously Make Things Worse Through Undernegotiated Sexual Encounters_. Please heed the tags and warnings. Some fun times are had here, but as always, everything hurts. I swear I don't actually hate Jon Sims and some day I will stop projecting all over him.

_“The understanding, like the eye, whilst it makes us see and perceive all other things, takes no notice of itself: and it requires art and pains to set it at a distance and make it its own object.”_  
John Locke - An Essay Concerning Human Understanding

 

The address is in Chelsea, within walking distance of the Institute. The building, when Jon reaches it, is a converted Edwardian house, four storeys and a neat fenced-in garden, buzzers for the flats at the front door. Jon vacillates at the garden gate, and again on the doorstep. He shouldn’t have come.

 _Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me._ Well, shame on Jon, because he’s been made a fool twice over by Peter Lukas. Humiliated and exposed twice over, in entirely different but equally hateful ways. There’s no reason for Jon to think this isn't another trick. Another degradation. _And why did you let him bring you here, in that case?_  

Because of the note, of course. In Martin’s neat handwriting, which Jon recognizes from a hundred case reports and interview summaries. Post-it notes stuck to plates admonishing him to _eat something, Jon._ Most recently, signing his name _per procurationem_ at the end of official Institute memos. And today, asking him _please_ to come here this evening. No further information, simply a request.

Of course Jon’s here, because regardless if Lukas is behind this, it’s Martin asking. Jon’s not sure there’s much he could refuse Martin these days, even before the violation and betrayal Jon's inflicted on him. For _that_ , he owes whatever Martin wants. Any penance or punishment. At the very least, needs to start by hearing what Martin wants to say to him, and if it’s _I hate you_ or _never speak to me again,_ then Jon thinks he’ll understand that. Whether he can survive it is another matter.

Jon’s hand is unsteady as he presses the buzzer for no. 4, labeled _Blackwood_ in familiar script. He has no idea how Martin’s affording a flat in Chelsea, but he suspects Lukas has something to do with it. Trying to buy Martin’s affections, as if he’d be so easy. He’s almost feeling resentful by the time Martin’s voice crackles gently over the speaker, _“Come up, Jon”_ , and the door buzzes and clicks. Jon pushes it open, and stalls.

He shouldn’t be afraid. He’s faced avatars and monsters, the literal end of the world in a dance. Gone into the Buried and climbed back out. But he’s terrified, heart racing, breath tight and shallow. His fists clench, fingernails biting into his palms. He forces himself to breathe, deep and slow, but it barely calms him.

Of course he’s afraid. He’s going to Martin’s flat. Martin, who last saw him on his knees with Peter Lukas’ come on his face, debased and exposed. Martin, who now knows all the ways Jon’s violated his privacy, his trust. Martin, who has to despise him. Jon’s afraid, but he can’t be a coward. He needs to face this, and accept the consequences.

He deserves everything that’s coming to him.

He steadies himself and heads up the stairs. By the time he reaches the top floor he’s feeling more in command of himself, though his hand still jitters as he knocks on the door. It opens quickly enough that Jon thinks Martin might have been waiting right there. Martin smiles anxiously and waves him inside.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “Do you want a cup of tea? Or some water?”

“No - thank you.” Jon hovers uncertainly. The flat is spacious, an open plan kitchen and living room with a hallway leading off to the rear. Colorful rugs on the floor and cosy looking furniture. Martin shuts the door, looking at him expectantly.

“Martin,” Jon begins, “I - I don’t - ”

“Sit down, Jon.” His tone is firm but not unkind. Jon swallows hard and sits in an armchair, perched right on the edge. He grips the armrest to ground himself; the fabric is plush beneath his palm. Martin sits down at the end of the sofa nearest Jon, hands resting in his lap.

“I thought we should talk,” he says. “And not at work. I’m glad you came.”

“Martin,” Jon tries again. “I can’t imagine how betrayed and - _angry_ you must feel. I know I can’t make it up to you.”  

Martin sighs, shaking his head. Jon braces himself.

“I’m not angry with you, Jon. I mean I _was_ , a bit, but - well, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really...seem that important?”

“Not important? Martin, I completely invaded your privacy. I _spied_ on you! You _should_ be angry.”

“Yeah, and Elias is apparently watching all of us all the time. Privacy doesn’t really apply. And you don’t get to tell me how I _should_ feel about things.” Martin’s face is indignant and pink. “That’s up to me. I’m not going to shout at you just so you can feel you’ve been punished.”

“That’s not - ” Jon begins, except isn’t it? Wasn’t he hoping for castigation? For penance? “I - you’re right. Sorry.”

“It’s...all right. If it makes you feel better, I _did_ give Peter an earful.”

“An _earful,_ after what he did? You shouldn’t even let him in the same _room_ with you.”

Martin frowns, leaning forward in his seat.

“Look, I’m not under any illusions about Peter. I know what he is. I know what he _does._ But - we need him. And you also don’t get to tell me what relationships I should or shouldn’t have. I’m just - I’m sorry, for what he did to you.”

“Don’t be,” Jon says flatly. “It was my choice.” His choice to watch, his choice to **_know_** , his choice to try and cover it up by giving Peter Lukas what he wanted. Did he really believe getting on his knees would placate Peter, or did part of him simply want it? Want to be hurt and humiliated for it all?

“I - right,” says Martin. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it wasn’t. I only meant that I spoke with Peter, and he - ”

“My ears are burning,” comes a jovial voice, as Peter strolls down the hallway. Jon starts to his feet, blood rushing in his ears. He can’t tell if it’s fear or anger. Peter gives him a rakish salute and drops onto the sofa beside Martin, so close their thighs are pressed together. Martin spares Peter an exasperated look, and reaches a hand up to Jon, imploring.

“Please, Jon, would you sit down?” Thoughtlessly, Jon takes the proffered hand and sinks back onto his seat, stiff and tense. Martin smiles at him and squeezes his hand.

“Why is he here?”

“Martin tells me I owe you an apology,” says Peter. “He’s the better part of my conscience, you know. My own personal Jiminy Cricket.”

Jon barks a laugh. This is starting to slide into absurdity.

“An _apology?_ Do you even know what you’d be apologizing for?”

“Of course I do, Jon. I’m not ignorant of the impact my actions have, I just don’t much care. But Martin wants me to apologize, and I care what Martin thinks. So, I apologize.”

“Bloody hell,” Jon breathes.

“I asked Peter to be here, because this involves all of us.” Martin looks nervous again. His fingers tighten around Jon’s and Jon is suddenly, intensely aware of the fact that he is holding Martin’s hand. That it didn’t even feel strange to take it in his own. That it feels - really nice.

“Jon, I know you’ve been lonely. That things have been difficult for you, since you - got back.”

“It’s not your fault.” The last thing Jon wants is for Martin to imagine any of this is his fault, even remotely.

“I know it isn’t, but I still _care._ So what I’m saying is - ” Martin takes a deep breath. “If you want to - to watch, or to _know_ or whatever, it’s okay. It’s - it's good.”

Jon stares at him, dumbfounded. His heart has redoubled its painful efforts, and he can feel a flush creeping up his neck. Martin's cheeks have gone pink with embarrassment, and he’s not quite meeting Jon’s eyes. Jon glances at Peter, who quirks an amused eyebrow.

“I certainly don’t mind.”

Jon scowls and dismisses him, turning back to Martin. His throat is tight, his mouth dry. He licks his lips nervously.

“Martin, I - I don’t - You can’t _want_ that.”

“Jon, I swear, if you tell me one more thing I should or shouldn’t or can’t - ” Martin huffs. His cheeks are still glowing but his expression is resolute. “I want you to be happy. And if this...helps? Then I want it.”

“He’s so modest,” Peter says, snaking an arm around Martin’s waist. “He told me only the other night that the thought of you watching really revs his engine. Remember, Martin? It was while I was - ”

“Peter!” Martin snaps, going if possible even more red. “Please.”

“Sorry, sorry, pretend I’m not here.”

Jon can hardly breathe as Martin turns towards him, reaching across so Jon’s hand is now cradled in both of his. His eyes meet Jon’s, hesitant but determined.

“That’s the other reason I invited you here this evening. To ask - if you want to stay and watch? Tonight?”

Jon stops breathing. His thoughts white out for a moment, entirely blank. His pulse is pounding so hard he feels faint.

“If you prefer not to be - _here_ , that’s okay as well. If it’s more comfortable for you to be somewhere else?”

“No - no,” Jon manages to stammer. “I mean - here is fine. I - _god._ Yes, I - I want to.”

“That’s good,” Martin says happily. He presses Jon’s hand between his, and Jon grips back almost desperately.

“Well if that’s settled,” Peter chimes in, “How about it? No time like the present.”

“Jon?” Martin asks. Anxiety rolls over him as rational thought reasserts itself. He pulls his hand away, patting at his jacket pockets.

“I, uh, I think I need a cigarette.”

“That traditionally comes afterwards, you know,” Peter says. Martin elbows him.

“You can smoke on the balcony.”

Jon shakily consumes a cigarette on the little balcony, looking down at the street below and wondering how badly he’d hurt himself if he jumped. He doesn’t think the fall would kill him, certainly not these days.

What the hell has he gotten himself into? This is - ludicrous. There’s no way he can sit there and _watch,_ although the thought makes his chest tighten and his face heat. And with Peter Lukas involved, that monster in human form. Being in the same room with him puts Jon’s teeth on edge. He _can’t._

Except. God, except he wants to.

He’s still **_known,_ ** since that night in the storage room. Felt it brushing the edges of his awareness, feather light and tantalizing. He’s pushed it away, refused to focus on it, much as he appallingly, pathetically wants to. And now he’s being _invited_ to.

It’s too much to process, his thoughts buzzing like angry wasps, bumping into each other. It’s surreal, and the part of Jon telling him to walk away, the practical, paranoid part of him, is rapidly giving ground to the thing in him that is hungry to **_know_**.

 _This is going to happen anyway,_ it whispers in the back of his skull. _You can be miserable about it from a distance, or you can stay here and see for yourself._

Jon finishes his cigarette and stubs it into the ashtray, which of course Martin is thoughtful enough to have out here. He takes a deep breath and goes back inside. Peter is still sprawled comfortably on the couch, looking utterly at ease, but Martin is standing, waiting for him.

“All right?” he asks. Jon takes a long moment to look at him, his worried, hopeful expression, the affection in his eyes. He hasn't spoken to Martin in so long, and now he's being given this. All of Martin, here, wanting _Jon_ here with him. The thought makes something unfold warmly behind his rib cage. He nods.

“Yes. I'm...good.”

“Great,” says Peter, standing up at Martin’s back. “Glad you’ve got that sorted.”

Without preamble he leans over Martin’s shoulder to nuzzle at his cheek, his hands bracketing Martin’s shoulders. Martin melts at the press of Peter’s bearded face against his, leaning back into him. Lets Peter kiss along his jawline and up to his ear, tilting his head into it. His eyes don’t leave Jon’s the whole time. Jon is staring, his pulse jittering with adrenaline. Something in him insists that this is wrong, he should leave, but he forces it down. Martin's eyes are on him, even as his lips part and his cheeks color. Martin _wants_ him here.

Peter’s face is pressed into Martin’s throat, making low, rumbling sounds of pleasure against his skin. Martin moans at something he does and turns in Peter’s grasp. Slides his arms around Peter’s neck and pulls him down to kiss. Jon watches Peter’s arms go around Martin, Peter’s large hands wandering over the plane of his back, down to his arse. Jon hears the soft, yearning sounds Martin’s making and he wants to _see,_ his feet moving without conscious thought until he has a better view.

Peter is somewhat taller than Martin, Martin’s head tipped back as they kiss. Jon feels heat rising in his face at the sight, the slow, lingering slide of their mouths, the press of their bodies together, holding each other close. It is intensely intimate, and it makes something bloom pleasurably in Jon’s belly. He feels a tickling in the back of his skull, as well, the **_knowing_ ** creeping in at the fringes of his thoughts.

Jon lets it in, lets it flood his brain in a rush of endorphins. Feels the warmth and cold and static of the scene in front of him, the slowly building arousal. He’s shaken by the intensity of it, of watching and **_knowing_ ** all at once. A small, breathless gasp escapes his lips.

He wilts with embarrassment as Martin and Peter both look over at him. They’re still twined together, Martin flushed and hazy eyed. Peter looks smug.

“Looks like he’s enjoying the show,” he says. Martin smiles shyly at Jon.

“Are you?”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak past the desert in his throat. His eyes fix on Martin's mouth as he bites his lip, red and kiss swollen.

“I think your Archivist might want do to more than _just_ watch,” Peter says. “You should kiss him.”

“Peter,” Martin says, warning.

“Yes,” Jon breathes. Martin’s eyes widen, and Jon sees his throat work nervously. He disengages from Peter and crosses to Jon, standing in front of him with a disbelieving expression.

“Only if you’re sure you want to,” he says seriously.

Jon wants to. He's wanted to for weeks, since the first time he saw Martin being kissed. Hasn't been able to get the image out of his head, and hasn't been able to stop thinking about how it would be, to kiss Martin himself. To hear those small, pleased sounds against his own mouth. The thought makes his head swim.

 _“Please_ _,_ Martin.”

Martin’s hands come up to cup his face, and Jon lets his eyes close as Martin leans down to kiss him. His lips press gently against Jon’s, careful and soft. It's Jon who draws the kiss deeper, wanting more, parting Martin's lips with his own. Martin sighs softly into Jon’s mouth and the sound uncoils pleasantly down Jon's spine. They kiss slow and tender, and by the time they pull apart Jon feels ragged at the edges, undone and trembling.

“Very nice,” Peter says approvingly, and Jon glares at him. Peter smirks. “How about we take this into the bedroom?”

Martin holds Jon’s hand as they walk down the hallway. In the bedroom, Peter pulls Martin against himself and kisses him fiercely, possessively, his hands roaming Martin’s body as Martin grips his shoulders for dear life.

Jon finds his way to the chair in the corner of the room, his eyes fixed on the pair of them. Now that he’s allowing himself to watch openly, not furtive and guilty, he can’t tear his eyes away. He feels heat curling in his stomach at the memory of Martin’s lips on his, the sight of Peter ravaging Martin’s mouth deeply. He **_knows_** the desire and arousal threading between them, feels it running through his own veins, thick and hot. His cock is half hard against his thigh, and he shifts uncomfortably.

“You are wearing far too many clothes,” Peter tells Martin. Martin is breathing hard, and even Peter looks a little debauched, his mouth red and parted.

“You're one to talk,” Martin says, and starts unbuttoning Peter’s shirt.

Jon watches hungrily, his breath twisting oddly in his throat, as layers of clothing drop away. Their hands practised on each other’s bodies, and Jon knows he should feel ashamed that he’s seen all this before, illicitly. Seen the fair expanse of Martin’s skin, its constellations of freckles. **_Known_ ** everything about Martin, and nothing about Peter, his thick body with its scars and tattoos.

He should, but all he feels is enthralled, excited, his attention riveted as Martin pushes Peter onto the bed and straddles his thighs, grinding their hips together. Martin leans in to kiss Peter, gasping as Peter’s hands slide down his back to his arse, pulling Martin hard against him. He laughs as Peter rolls them over to put himself on top. Jon doesn't think he's ever heard Martin laugh like that, pleased and giddy.

Jon watches as Peter moves down the length of Martin's body, running his hands over Martin’s chest and waist and thighs. Peter kisses him everywhere as he descends, collarbones and nipples and ribs, the soft curve of his belly. Peter presses a wet kiss into the juncture of Martin’s thigh and groin that makes him squirm, and then he turns his head towards Jon.

“Want to help me out?” he asks, grinning. “He’s too much for one old man.”

Jon’s heart jolts frantically and he licks his parched lips. Peter chuckles, and presses his mouth back into the crease of Martin’s thigh, biting gently and making him moan. Jon doesn’t know how he got to his feet, but somehow he has, and somehow he is standing right above Martin, who is looking up at him with bright, hazy eyes, his lips parted and panting.

“Jon,” he says breathily, “Ignore Peter. You don't have to do anything.”

Jon lifts one knee onto the mattress and leans down to press a palm to Martin’s cheek. Martin’s head falls heavily against his hand, his eyes drifting shut, and Jon runs his other hand through the ginger-blond mess of Martin’s hair, soft and sweat damp against his fingers. Martin is pliant and sensual in Jon’s grasp, dragging his open mouth against Jon’s wrist, panting as Peter works between his thighs.

“Can I?” Jon asks, and Martin groans. Yearns up towards him and Jon leans in to meet him in a kiss, open mouthed, wet and desperate.

“Anything you want,” he gasps when they part, and Jon **_knows_** how much he means it with staggering clarity.  _“Anything,_ Jon.”

Jon swallows around the tight knot in his throat, and when he climbs fully onto the mattress it feels less like a choice than a need. Peter Lukas lifts his face from between Martin’s legs and leers at him.

“Leaving all your clothes on, Archivist?” he says with a leer. “Kinky.”

“Leave him alone, Peter,” Martin snaps, while the familiar feeling rolls over Jon, a mix of guilt and fear prickling his skin, the reminder that he's _wrong_ and everyone knows it.

“What? I'm just teasing him. I guess it really is the watching that gets you going, eh Jon?”

Peter’s gaze travels shamelessly down to Jon's groin, and god, he wishes he hadn't chosen today to wear jeans. The restrictive fabric is equal parts uncomfortable and stimulating, and he feels unpleasantly exposed.

“Fuck off, Lukas,” he says. He's here for Martin. If that involves ignoring Peter’s jibes, not letting on how they sting, he can do that. There's nothing Peter Lukas can say to him that Jon hasn't thought about himself.

Peter grins as if he's said something amusing, and gives his own cock a few quick strokes. Runs an affectionate hand down Martin's flank.

“Why don’t you take over here, Jon? I’ve got a hankering to dip my quill.” He winks, then: “Martin, do you want my cock in your mouth?”

 _“Yes_ , Peter,” Martin almost moans, his hips twitching up against empty air. Peter gives a pleased chuckle and shuffles up the bed as Martin's head lolls to the side, eases the head of his cock between Martin's parted, eager lips. Jon swallows hard, transfixed by the sounds Martin's making as he sucks Peter's cock, his expression focused and blissful. Peter glances back at him.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation? Get your mouth on him.”

Martin groans, and Jon's breath catches. He positions himself between Martin's legs, which are splayed wantonly and bent at the knees, feet flat on the mattress. Jon runs an uncertain hand up one leg from ankle to knee, feeling the soft hair, skin goosebumping under his touch. Clasps his fingers around the ball of Martin's kneecap, pausing to steady himself. Then he leans in, folding over his own legs, running his palm up the inside of Martin's thigh. This close, he can smell the salt musk of Martin’s arousal, slick lips puffy and red beneath their thatch of ginger hair, his cock thrusting stiff and swollen out of its hood.

Jon breathes in hard, intoxicated, his heart hammering in his rib cage. He’s enjoyed giving oral sex in the past, when he’s cared for someone enough to make sex a gift rather than a chore. Enjoyed knowing that they’re letting themselves be so vulnerable to him, letting him be responsible for their pleasure. He’s never felt so intensely as this, awash with **_knowing_** , deeply aware of Martin’s arousal, his anticipation of Jon’s touch. He kisses Martin’s inner thigh gently, looks up along the length of Martin’s body. Martin’s mouth is still stretched around Peter's cock, Peter's hands petting over his face and chest, but his eyes are fixed on Jon.

“Martin,” Jon says, helpless and hoarse, “What do you want me to do?” Martin shivers and lets Peter's cock slip out of his mouth, his lips parted and wet.

“God, Jon,” he says. “You can, ah, lick me. Suck me. Anywhere you want. I just - I don’t like anything inside me. In front,” he clarifies. “Anything else, though. It’s all good.”

Jon nods frantically. His cheeks are burning hot. He wants this so badly. He uses his thumbs to part Martin’s folds nearest the front, so his cock stands out further from his pubic mound. Jon leans in and runs his tongue delicately over Martin’s cock, curling around it. Martin whimpers. Jon inhales deeply and presses closer, draws Martin’s cock into his mouth and suckles at it gently.

Martin gasps, his hand cupping the back of Jon’s skull, drawing him in. For a horrible instant Jon thinks of Peter Lukas doing the same thing only days ago, but he pushes the sudden cold feeling away. This isn’t that. This is _Martin_ , who Jon cares so desperately for. Who Jon has missed more than he thought possible, these past months. He wants nothing but to make Martin happy.

He pushes closer against Martin’s pubis, working Martin’s cock with his lips and tongue, loving the little groaning, keening sounds of pleasure Martin makes in response. He slides the knuckles of both index fingers along the outside of Martin’s slit, feeling the heat of his arousal. He can actually feel Martin’s pulse beating through the tender flesh, and the eroticism of that makes Jon’s head swim.

He is vaguely aware when Peter Lukas shifts his weight off the mattress, his feet padding across the room, but Jon doesn't care. Peter doesn't exist, all that exists is Martin, his thighs trembling around Jon, his chest heaving with ragged breath. Martin’s cock hot beneath his tongue, Martin’s hands petting his cheeks and hair as Martin moans and bucks under his mouth. His mounting pleasure curls through Jon _,_ _ **known** , _intense and overwhelming.Jon’s never been this turned on in his life.

“Oh god, Jon - ” Martin whines as he comes, his hands gently cradling Jon’s face where it’s pressed into him, his hips thrusting against Jon’s mouth. Jon feels his climax in a dizzy rush and moans, low and heated. He keeps licking and sucking Martin’s cock through his orgasm, keeps rubbing firmly over his swollen folds, until Martin is gasping and pushing him away, overstimulated and breathless.

“Enough, god, Jon,” he pleads, and Jon sits back on his heels, running his tongue over his lips, savoring the salt taste of Martin lingering there. Martin is intensely gorgeous as Jon looks up at him, breathing hard, his whole body flushed and undone, his eyes half lidded.

Jon crawls his way up into Martin’s waiting arms. Lets Martin kiss him gently, taste himself on Jon’s lips, and then lingers there, breathing into the space between their mouths.

“Jon,” Martin murmurs against his lips, and just the sound of his name is enough to send a thrill down Jon’s spine.

“Martin,” he breathes in return, “God, I - ”

“This is adorable,” Peter says, dropping heavily onto the bed beside them. “But we're not done yet, are we?”

Jon feels suddenly cold. He had nearly forgotten Peter, swept up in the tide of sensation, in **_knowing_ ** Martin so intimately. But now that blank, callous presence is prodding at the borders of his thoughts again, intruding obscenely on his awareness.

Martin twists around to meet Peter in a kiss, and Jon can feel his eagerness, his desire. It sends a sick feeling churning in the pit of his stomach, chasing away everything good. He's suddenly revolted at the sight of Peter touching Martin, Peter’s numb static coiling through Martin's warmth, insidious and hungry. Revolted at himself for ever wanting to **_know_ ** this, for the part of him that even now grasps perversely for that feeling.

 _He's_ the intruder here, the one who doesn't fit. Much as he wants to protect Martin, fiercely and tenderly, he has no right. If he ever did, he lost it long ago. Peter might be a monster, but Martin knows it, and Jon doesn't get to make those choices for him. He can only choose for himself, and he chose this, didn’t he? He chose to watch. To **_know_**. 

Jon shifts to the edge of the bed. Panic is settling around the edges of his thoughts, tightening his throat. He can't stay here. He never should have let this happen.

“I, uh - ” he stutters, helpless. They don't seem to notice. He has to go. Maybe they won't notice at all. He stands up shakily.

“Jon?” Martin says, sounding concerned. Jon shakes his head. He can't.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he says, and bolts.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Peter calls after him, and Jon grimaces. He hurries through the flat, only pausing to grab the jacket he’d discarded on the sofa, pulling it on clumsily.

Martin stops him at the door, still naked and wearing an expression of such distress that Jon hates himself. Martin did all this for him, to make him happy, and Jon’s ruined it. He can’t meet Martin’s eyes.

“Please, Jon,” Martin says, “Don’t run out like this. If I did something to - to upset you, please tell me.”

Jon shakes his head again. If he tries to say anything, he thinks he might lose it. He makes to push past Martin, blindly, but Martin is larger than him and sturdy. He grasps Jon’s shoulders gently, not trapping him, only holding him steady.

“Jon,” he says, his voice aching. _“Please,_ don’t go like this, when you’re upset. Just - sit down. I’ll make some tea. All right?”

“I - really should - ” Jon attempts, and then gives up. Nods acquiescence, and lets Martin guide him to the sofa. Leans his head back against the soft fabric, eyes closed, listening to his own ragged breath as Martin runs the tap and fills the kettle.

“Breather and a cup of tea, is it?” Peter comments cheerily as he emerges. Jon shudders, curling in on himself.

“Peter,” Martin says firmly, “Talk with me in the other room for a minute.”

Jon sits there with his eyes squeezed shut, listening to the sound of voices from the bedroom, the hiss of the kettle as it starts to boil. After a couple of minutes, he hears heavy footfalls on the wooden floor, and Peter Lukas walks out fully dressed. He leans over Jon and smiles at him, icily.

“Always a pleasure, Jon,” he says, then tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well, more so last time, but what can you do? Try not to make poor Martin feel too bad, eh? He’s already very upset.”

Jon wishes he could sink into the floor as Peter walks out, shutting the front door with a resounding _clunk_ behind him. A few moments later, Martin emerges in tracksuit pants and a t-shirt, and starts bustling around in the kitchen. Jon watches him fetching mugs and popping the tea bags in, pouring hot water over them, rummaging in the fridge for milk. It’s all terribly, achingly familiar, and Martin doesn’t say anything through it, just hums quietly to himself.

By the time he comes over and sits beside Jon, offering him a mug of tea, the cold, panicked feeling is retreating and Jon's starting to feel more himself. Starting to feel stupid, embarrassed at his reaction. He really can't do anything like a normal person, can he? He takes the tea, and the first sip tastes like home, perfectly sweetened and brewed just to the strength he likes it. He feels his eyes stinging with tears.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he says again, and Martin makes a soft huffing sound.

“Don’t, Jon, I’m the one who should be sorry. I never should have put you in that situation. It was really stupid, to think I could just - make everything okay like that. It was probably awful for you, wasn’t it?”

“No!” Jon insists urgently. “It was - it was good. Really. I just - it was a lot.” He doesn't want Martin to think he's done anything wrong, when Martin did this for him. Because he thought Jon wanted it. Jon thought he wanted it too. He's still not sure how he feels about it, but he can't think about that now or he might actually start crying. That's for him to agonize over later, lying sleepless in his camp bed into the small hours, cataloguing all the things he could have done differently.

He drinks more of his tea, feeling the warmth spread down through his throat into his belly. He's missed Martin so much. For a little while there, when it was just the two of them, Jon could imagine that he was happy. That everything was okay. His chest aches with how much he wishes it really was that way.

“I miss you,” he says, his voice cracking around the edges. He’s told Martin before, but he needs to tell him again, enough times that Martin believes it. He glances at Martin out of the corner of his eye and sees Martin’s eyes are red, a tiny smile wobbling on his lips.

“I miss you too,” Martin tells him. He sets his mug down on the table and turns to Jon. Gently takes Jon’s face in his hands, and Jon sees the question in his eyes. He nods minutely. Martin pulls him down to kiss his forehead, and then wraps his arms around Jon's shoulders. Martin holds him, wordless and warm, for a long time. Jon thinks his heart might be breaking.

This is it, he realizes. This is everything he's wanted, just _this,_ and he never knew it until it was far too late.

Hope is an insidious thing. It's been sitting unacknowledged in Jon's chest ever since he got Martin's note. A tiny, desperate flutter behind his ribs. Martin wanted to see him, and then Martin wanted _him_ , and he started thinking that maybe there was a way. Maybe he hadn't lost Martin entirely. Stupid, _stupid_.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” he asks when Martin lets go of him. The tea is still cradled in his hands, its warmth rapidly leaching into the air. Martin drops his eyes.

“I can’t, Jon,” he says. “Not yet. You know that.”

Hope is a cruel thing. Too easily born, and it hurts so much when it dies. 

“I know,” says Jon. He does, he  ** _knows_** , and more than anything he wishes he didn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cuttoothed). Comments are always appreciated.


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